Mr. H. (disappointed, but still bent on asserting his own value).  You see, I’m independent.  I can always find a berth, I can.  I don’t believe in keeping on anywhere longer than I’m comfortable.  Not but what I shall stick to where I am a bit longer, because I’ve a chance of a rise soon.  The Guv’nor don’t like the man in the Manchester department, so I expect I shall get his berth.  I get on well with the Guv’nor, you know, and he treats us very fair;—­we’ve a setting-room to ourselves, and we can come and set in the droring-room of a Sunday afternoon, like the family; and I often have to go into the City, and, when I get up there, I can tell yer, I—­

Flo (suddenly).  Oh! there’s Mother!  I must go and speak to her a minute.  Come, POLLY!

    [Both girls rise, and rush after a stout lady who is
    disappearing in the crowd.

Alfred (speaking for the first time).  I say, we’ll ’ook it now, eh?

Mr. H. (gloomily accepting the situation).  Yes, we’d better ’ook it.

[They “’ook it” accordingly, and Miss FLO and Miss POLLY, returning later, find, rather to their surprise, that their victim has departed, and their chairs are filled by blandly unconscious strangers.  However, both young ladies declare that it is “a good riddance,” and they thought “that ERNIE ’ORKINS never meant to go,”—­ which seems amply to console them for having slightly overrated their powers of fascination.

* * * * *

THE GROAN OF THE “GROWLER.”

[The British “Cabby,” hearing of the new Parisian plan of regulating Cab-fares by distance, which is to be shown by an automatic apparatus, venteth his feelings of dismay and disgust in anticipation of the application of the new-fangled System nearer home.]

  A Autumn-attic happaratus
    For measuring off our blooming fares! 
  Oh, hang it all!  They slang and slate us;
    They say we crawls, and cheats, and swears. 
  And we surwives the sneering slaters,
    Wot tries our games to circumvent,
  But treating us like Try-yer-weighters,
    Or chockerlate, or stamps, or scent! 
  Upon my soul the stingy dodgers
    Did ought to be shut up.  They’re wuss
  Than Mrs. JACKERMETTY PRODGERS,
    Who earned the ’onest Cabman’s cuss. 
  It’s sickening!  Ah, I tell yer wot, Sir,
    Next they’ll stick hup—­oh, you may smile—­
  This:—­“Drop a shilling in the slot.  Sir,
    And the Cab goes for just two mile!”
  Beastly!  I ain’t no blessed babby,
    Thus to be measured off like tape. 
  Yah!  Make a autumn-attic Cabby,
    With clock-work whip and a tin cape. 
  May as well, while you’re on the job, Sir. 
    And then—­may rust upset yer works! 
  The poor man of his beer they’d rob, Sir,
    Who’d rob poor Cabby of his perks!